Ephemera
by Enaid Aderyn
Summary: Glimpses of defining moments between Akela Mahariel and Tamlen.
1. Four Years

**1. Four Years**

**.o0o.**

The younglings eyed each other from opposite sides of the aravel with the wary resentment of cats come nose to nose in a strange territory.

"I'll just take this along to Tamlen's mamae, and then I'll help her with the spinning." Ashalle transferred a dripping honeycomb to a bowl and covered it. "Keeper said she mustn't use her arm until the bone sets and she's sure to be going mad with frustration, poor dear. You two can keep each other company; I know you'll enjoy having someone the same age to play with," she continued, unmindful of the dubious atmosphere behind her.

She wiped down the honey crock and ran the cloth around the wide rim.

"Now, then, da'len, come here and you may have a treat."

The staring contest forgotten on the instant, the boys darted to her side and crowded close. Ashalle smiled down at the upturned faces.

"Look at you. Like Noon and Night." She patted white-blond Tamlen's cheek and tucked an unruly black lock behind Akela's ear. "Hold out a finger."

After scraping a judicious blob of sticky crystals onto each eager fingertip – immediately transferred to their mouths – Ashalle sealed the crock and, under the attentive gaze of her audience, returned it to the netting overhead that kept it secure when the aravel was in motion.

"Now, I'll be back before long. Be good, da'len." With that, she bustled out.

Akela sucked his finger, savoring every last sweet grain, and eyed the crock thoughtfully. No convenient shelves or tables nearby for climbing, it was placed quite out of the reach of a single four-year-old da'len.

He looked sidelong at Tamlen. The other was licking a stray drop between his fingers while studying the crock himself, then glanced at Akela.

Ten minutes later the pair fled giggling into the thickets with their loot, where they devoured the crock's contents down to the last comb and sticky golden drop. Akela didn't bother wondering why, but he felt like this was the best thing he'd ever tasted his whole life.

Having to break the crock to free themselves after simultaneously reaching in to scrape the bottom was just a minor setback.


	2. Nine Years

**2. Nine Years**

**.o0o.**

Shouts and the clash of weapons ripped the smoke-filled air, the halla's frightened bugling adding an eerie descant to the chaos of the human raiders' attack.

"Here! In here!" Tamlen beckoned urgently from under an aravel. Akela gauged the distance, then charged across the open space to slide feet-first beneath the wagon. Spitting dust, he squirmed further in with Tamlen's assistance until he lay prone next to his friend.

"They fired Odran's aravel," Akela gasped. "He was still _in it_. Got him out, but, but his shirt, his _hair_ was burning." A hoarse bellow sounded nearby and they both flinched.

"The ones that came up lakeside, Junar and the other scouts filled them full of arrows, but the hairy monsters had already smashed all the racks and nets and—" Tamlen broke off, eyes widening, and clutched Akela's arm urgently. "Akela, have you seen my mother?"

"I—no. I saw some of your cousins with Ashalle safe with the Keeper, and then I got away to find you." Akela answered with rising alarm. "Where'd you see her last?"

"She went off this morning down to the little clearing that's all over honeysuckle to do some weaving. _Alone!_" Tamlen moaned. "Oh, Mythal, she's alone! Akela, we have to get her _now!_"

Akela was already starting to move. "Let's g—" They froze as the aravel shook under a violent impact and a hunter's body hit the ground. Not two feet away, Fomhar returned their horrified gaze, gargling hideously around the crossbow bolt imbedded in his throat before going still. A bloody froth drooled over the _vallaslin_ he had received little more than a fortnight past.

"Come on, come on, _come on!_" Tamlen yanked at Akela's sleeve. They wriggled backwards and emerged to crouch in the lee of a woodpile, feeling exposed and determined.

"It's a straight run across past the crooked oak."

"But it's better cover if we cut right to the bales there, and then circle the Hahren's aravel." Akela gestured, and at Tamlen's mulish expression added, "Crossbows?" The other boy swallowed and nodded.

"Ready?" Tamlen pulled out his knife.

Akela patted his own empty belt in quick dismay, glanced about and seized the hand axe from the nearby wood block. "Ready."

"_Now!_" Tamlen darted out, Akela close on his heels. They skidded to a halt behind the canvas bales and, with a gulping pause for breath, fled past Paivel's aravel and down the trail. There seemed to be no indication they'd been noticed. Impossible to tell if that was a good sign or bad, although they prayed for the former.

The honeysuckle's sweet fragrance wafted toward them as they approached the dell, intensifying when the towering human brushed the foliage as he exited, adjusting his trews. Grinning, he reached for the little blond elfling that charged him, screaming inarticulately.

Tamlen slashed at him, and the brute roared, clutching the deep gash on his hand while Tamlen ducked around him to sprint into the clearing.

"You knife-eared little piece of shit!"

He grabbed for his blade and had half-turned to follow when Akela swung the hand-axe with all his strength directly into the man's groin.

The human folded with a retching screech, and Akela leaped onto his neck to drive his head into the ground.

"Mamae? Are you all—mamae? Mamae! _Mamae!_"

The agony in his best friend's voice sliced through his gut, and with a snarl Akela seized a rock and smashed it into the shem's temple. _That_ for Tamlen's mamae.

And _again_ for Fomhar.

And _again_ for Odran.

And _again _for scaring Ashalle and for _break_ing our _homes_ and _AL_ways _HURT_ing and _KILL_ing and for _EVery SINgle TEAR beCAUSE of YOU you STINKing HAIRy SHEM—_

Master Ilen had to pry the rock from Akela's grip, drawing the boy away from the pulp of brain and bone chips with fierce words of praise before passing him to Ashalle, who checked frantically to be sure none of the splattered blood was his own before enfolding him tightly in her arms. He stood rigid and trembling in her embrace for long moments; not until he saw the weeping Tamlen being ushered away by his family did the little boy begin to cry in turn.

.


	3. Eleven Years

**3. Eleven Years**

**.o0o.**

"What do you think, _lethallin_?" Tamlen's murmur was pitched to blend with the faint rustle of the breeze-stirred foliage. "Can we take him?"

Akela sighted down the length of his drawn arrow, studying the healthy stag amongst the trees. "The angle's terrible. We'd hit him, but nothing vital."

"Moving puts us upwind, though."

"Mm. And," Akela added reluctantly, "even if we brought him down, he's awfully big. I don't think we could get the carcass back to camp, or even cache it safely, do you?"

"Maybe. Yeah. That would be embarrassing. Ugh." With a frustrated grunt, Tamlen relaxed the tension on his bowstring and stood, his friend following suit.

The stag threw its head back and bounded away, flushing a grouse as it crashed through the brush. The fat bird's clattering flight was abruptly cut short and it went spinning into the dirt, skewered by two arrows.

"Yes!" The boys clicked their bows together in triumph. "_We_ are the _best!_"

Akela looked around while Tamlen retrieved their prize. "You know—" He parted the undergrowth and examined the ground. "Lots of tracks here. This is perfect for a set of snares."

"Go ahead." Tamlen sat down with the bird in his lap and began to extract the arrows. Akela knelt and got to work with his knife and a roll of cord, tossing his head periodically to clear straying tendrils of hair from his field of view.

He was checking the tension on his traps when Tamlen sniggered a bit.

"Hm?"

"Twitch, twitch. You look like a halla in fly season."

"What?" Akela sat back on his heels to stare at the other, who made an exaggerated face and flung his head from side to side. "Oh, that." Shrugging, he pushed a lock behind his ear. Ashalle had conceded the battle of wills over haircutting long before he and Tamlen had met. "I don't care. It never stays tied back, and head bands are annoying."

"You can tie a perfect snare in the dark one-handed but you can't manage a braid to keep your hair out of your face."

"A snare is in front of me," Akela pointed out reasonably, "and I'm not trying to catch animals with my hair."

"Are you sure?" Tamlen poked the leather thong buried in the untidy tail at the nape of his friend's neck.

"Shut up."

"Turn around." He rolled his eyes at Akela's scowl. "Just do it." He pulled the thong free, combing his fingers through the long black strands. "I'm surrounded by weavers, remember? I pick up tricks just by breathing."

Akela winced as a knot caught and pulled. He drew breath for a protest, which died unspoken when Tamlen mused absently, "I used to do this for mamae in the evenings. It was nice."

Swallowing the knot that had materialized in his throat, Akela settled down on his heels without further argument. Once he relaxed, the slight tugs from the deft manipulations became oddly soothing, and a minute passed in companionable silence.

"This is like those stories Paivel told at the last Gathering," Tamlen exclaimed. "You know? Comrades bonded through ties of their deeds and glory, ritually arming each other for war. That's us, what this is!"

"Hey, yeah!"

"What should we call it? We need a name. Like, oh—"

"What were they in the story?"

"'Shield-brothers'."

They considered and dismissed that on the grounds that neither of them used a shield. 'Sword-brothers' presented similar issues. 'Hunt-brothers' and 'Bow-brothers', while accurate, were insufficiently dramatic. 'Blood masters' was mildly disturbing; 'Death stalkers' and 'Night prowlers' held a certain appeal, but strayed from the original concept. Following a fit of giggles over 'Littermates', they reluctantly concluded that _Lethallin _would have to suffice until something better came along.

"But when _we_ say it, we'll know we really mean something _bigger_, just for us," Tamlen insisted.

Akela nodded, pale eyes shining. "Right! Something _important!_"

"Okay, I'm done." Tamlen stepped back, giving the other boy a hand up as he did. "Not bad, if I say it myself. How's it feel?"

Self-consciously, Akela ran his fingers over his head, exploring the tight plaits that led into a single thick braid hanging behind. He shook his head once, then again more vigorously, fascinated to find everything stayed in place.

"I can't believe it. You're brilliant." He frowned slightly. "But, wait, if this is going to be our ritual, I can't do the same for you, _lethallin_."

Tamlen ruffled his own hair, cropped finger-length. "Nah, I guess not. No worries, _lethallin_, we'll just come up with something else for me."

"Hm."

Tamlen grinned. "You could wash my feet."

"I could kick your arse."

"Well, it's the thought that counts."

.


End file.
